Time Consumes: Art Distils

This is the original version restored on July 10th, 2026 (Compare with “Time is like a forest fire …” as updated in 2017.) Ghetufool, nickname of my longest online friend, was a young Bengali starting to write stories in English, many of which I’ve republished here. He said my language was “getting  tougher by the time. He was right, and  some years ago I revised many posts, perhaps osing their fresh naivety, it’s not for me to judge. This piece is perhaps a bit esoteric, in the manner of  T S Eliot, poet of  The Waste Land, which doesn’t make it good but I’m not going to justify anything

They say time flies like an arrow, but I’ve not observed it, except in the clockwork contrivances of man. No! Time is a flame, which ignites our moments and cremates all our yesterdays. Artists know this. In the crucible of intensity they distil what they can, creating not fossils but an essence to fuel the re-igniting of other moments in other souls.

I wrote the other day of the medieval peasants’ Christmas. The mythic power of Bible stories, even to those who could not read, illumined the darkest days of the Winter Solstice—Yule—whose druidical lore remained alive in parallel. A carol, “The Holly and the Ivy”, attempts a synthesis with Christianity, as in the words,

The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good . . .

The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas day in the morn.

But what of the mysterious mistletoe? Its role in legitimising stolen kisses remains obstinately pagan, especially with libations of ale and wine to help bring on the seasonal sentiment: “on earth peace, goodwill toward men”.

Ever since childhood I’ve felt awkward in the overheated jollity of parties, and have gladly stepped out into the night, to a New Year’s gift of pavements sparkling with frost.

Earlier:

It’s twilight and raining steadily. Up on the hills—both sides—street-lights twinkle. Distantly, two humans walking their dogs; one factory chimney. I’m in the local “recreation ground”, a public grassy area with football pitches, tennis courts, a children’s playground and this avenue of denuded plane trees. Rain patters on sodden leaves carpeting the path and grass, everywhere a whispered caress. Raindrops quiver as they cling to bare twigs and reflect what’s left of the sky’s glow.

The moment’s so special, it demands to be shared. I don’t have my camera, but I can record my thoughts in this Olympus Pearlcorder, my constant companion on trips where a notebook cannot be used. I’m not lonely: angels in the twinkling lights and pattering rain keep me company. My beloved calls me up on the cellphone. Briefly, we exchange experience—the moment is double-blessed. At the edge of the ground there’s a swollen stream. In the gathering gloom, I pee discreetly on a weeping-willow’s trunk, then pass a mysterious compound of humming transformers, protected by wire netting and yellow signs: “Danger of death: keep out”.

I think of the renowned house, in nearby Sands, whose significant consumption of this dangerous electricity each Christmas helps distil today’s peasant art.